


And I Have Loved You Wild...

by ShesGotTheMoonInHerEyes



Series: Seven Bridges Road [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Protective Greg, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25527850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShesGotTheMoonInHerEyes/pseuds/ShesGotTheMoonInHerEyes
Summary: Mycroft hopes some time away from London after his ordeal will help him to rediscover his strength, but will time away from the concerned gazes of the people who care for him help him find it or push him to lose himself entirely?
Relationships: Anthea & Greg Lestrade, Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan & Greg Lestrade
Series: Seven Bridges Road [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834000
Comments: 137
Kudos: 230





	1. Never Thought You'd Be Alone, This Far Down The Line

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again for the support you've shown this story! I've never written any fiction before, and I have to admit, it's been a bit addicting. I've really enjoyed the process, and your lovely comments and support have really made the experience great. Now that I've finished, I'm already thinking about all of the other adventures I can send this little crew on. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy our little trip to sunny, spectacular Sardinia in the coming chapters. It's one of my favorite places on earth, so I just had to send Mycroft there. If you're looking for a virtual escape, do a little google for La Maddalena and lose yourself for a while in those unbelievable blues. When we're allowed to travel internationally again one day, that's where you'll find me!

_He’s been in a shit mood for weeks now_ , Sally thinks, eyeing her boss's door. From behind it, everyone in the bullpen can hear him loudly berating the newbie. Once PC Johnson slinks back toward his desk, eyes down, tail firmly between his legs, she gets up and heads in the direction of his office, knocking twice on the doorframe. 

“What,” he says tersely, hoping she isn’t coming to tell him they’ve found another body. It’s been a rough stretch of cases for their squad. First the bombings, then the kidnapping mess with the Freak’s brother, and now someone is drowning people in the Thames. One a week for the past three. 

Hands up in surrender, Sally says, “You should kick off for the day. Go get some rest, boss. Looks like you haven’t slept in years. I’ll cover for you.”

She never offers to do that. He rolls his head on his neck, muscles cracking audibly. _God, you must’ve been a right terror today,_ he thinks to himself. 

“‘M sorry Sal. The past few weeks have been bloody awful. How bad was I today?” He asks, eyeing her. 

“Well, I don’t think Johnson will ever forget chain of custody again if that’s what you’re asking,” she says with a grimace. 

She eyes the clock on his wall, it’s nearly seven. She changes tactics. “Drink?” She offers, tipping her head toward the door. 

“Can’t. I have all of this to finish," Gesturing vaguely to the seemingly random stacks of paper on his desk. 

“C’mon. It’ll keep. You look like you need it.” She’s already pulling his coat off the hook on the back of the door. Greg closes his eyes, massaging his temples. 

“Fine. Yeah. Suppose I could murder a pint... or four,” he says, taking his coat from her outstretched hands and flicking the light off on his way out. 

“Hey Johnson,” he says to the PC who seems to have scrunched down further inside his cube so as not to be seen. The kid's head emerges slowly from behind his computer screen. “I’m sorry, yeah? S’just been a shit week. Don’t worry about it. Happens to everyone once. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Sir.” Johnson says, acknowledging the apology. Sally bites back a smile. Greg can be harsh with the young ones, but it’s never malicious. He genuinely only wants them to learn so they can get better. He was like that with her in the beginning too. It’s why she’s come this far. 

“C’mon,” she says, her hand on his shoulder guiding him toward the elevator.

\- - 

Once comfortably seated in a booth at the Three Lions, sweating pint glasses in front of them, she studies him. _It’s gotta be something more than just this case. Yes, the drownings were awful, but not the worst they’ve seen, not by any stretch._ He’s got dark circles around his eyes, and his shoulders seem to sit lower on his frame, like there’s a hand on each, pushing them down. He looks dejected and something else she can't quite put her finger on...sad, maybe?

“Oi, what’s going on with you?” She asks, kicking him under the table as she watches him down his first beer. He waits a beat, tipping the last sip into his mouth before gesturing to the waitress for another. Sally isn’t even halfway through her first. 

“‘S nothing, Sal. Just a rough few weeks.” Empty glass forgotten, he’s running his finger through the ring of condensation on the sticky wooden table, around and around in circles to avoid meeting her eyes. 

“Bullshit,” she says. “You forget that I know you, Greg. We've been working together for years. I know all of your tells. Spill it.” 

Just as he’s about to open his mouth, they’re interrupted by the waitress delivering a second round. Sally nudges her fresh one off to the side. It takes the waitress a minute to clear the glasses from their table, so they sit in awkward silence until she finally turns away. 

“I fucked up Sal.” Frustration evident in his voice.

“Yeah? How?”

“I’ve been in touch with Mycroft’s assistant the past few weeks.” She thinks for a minute, searching her memory. “Right, right. The leggy brunette from the scene.”

“Yeah. Anthea. She’s been keeping me posted on how he’s doing. Which is not well by the way. He’s pretty fucked up by the whole thing. Physically still, obviously, but also mentally. Emotionally, I mean.”

“Rightfully so,” Sally volley’s back. Once they’d sent the man on his way to the hospital, Sally had been the one to liaise with MI-5 to secure the scene, one of the more disturbing in her career. It was dark, damp, and cold causing a chill to run up her spine. She didn't even want to be in there for more than a few minutes, and poor Mycroft Holmes had been there for days. Found laying on top of hundreds of surveillance photos of himself, Greg, Sherlock, and Dr. Watson’s faces peeking out in the few that she saw before her counterpart packed them away. And there was just so much blood.

Bringing herself back to the present with a small shake of her head she says, “He’s gonna need a lot of therapy I imagine. You’d hope he already has access to a good shrink after dealing with a brother like Sherlock. I don’t get it though. What’s got you so wound up? We found him, and he's getting better.” 

He considers Sally for a minute before responding. She's right, she's known him for long enough to be able to tell when something's bothering him. She's always been a good listener. Always had his back. _May as well unload it all on her and see if she can help you make sense of it._

Taking a big sip of his beer, he launches into the story about the Struffoli at Christmas, Anthea’s messages, Sherlock’s texts, and then finally the awful day he pays the man a visit. Sally listens intently, not saying a word.

“...And so I just left him there. Panicking, hyperventilating. Christ. It was like I broke him. It happened so suddenly. And he’s so...stoic usually, ya know? Imposing and confident. It was really unsettling to see him like that. He was frozen, like someone had unplugged him. All you could hear was the sound of his breathing. God,” Greg’s hands are back at his temples now “I can still hear it when I close my eyes. And the scars Sal, you didn’t see them. Everywhere. I mean literally everywhere. His face is a right mess still.” 

“Hey, panic attacks can do that.” Reassuringly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Man’s probably got a lifetime of trauma to work through now because of what that bastard did to him. It’s bound to happen. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“Watch me,” he says, emptying his second glass and signaling for another. 

“So what now? You just gonna abandon him? Seems like you’ve got a thing for the Posh Mr. Holmes, and it sounds like he needs a friend.” 

Greg looks up at her, his muscles suddenly tense. They’d never spoken about his sexuality. The team knew he was married, of course. Lisa had come to some of the Yard Christmas parties, only to stand in the corner and bitch about how bored she was. He’s comfortable in his skin, with his sexuality, but he doesn't parade it around. For some reason it feels different when someone in his professional life knows. _She’s a friend,_ his brain tells him. _Not just some someone you work with._

“S’ok Greg. I’ve known you’ve gone for both for a while. Love is love, right?” She offers him a smile, patting his arm. 

“I...how...oh, whatever.” He says, putting his head in his hands. 

“So, the scars. Do they bother you? I mean do they turn you off?” 

“God, no. I mean obviously I wish he didn’t have them, but only because it would mean he didn’t have to go through that. Not because they turn me off. Just proof that he survived, right?”

“Right,” she says, with a small smile. _You’re such a good guy. You need to tell him that someday when he asks,_ she thinks. _Because if you get into bed together, you can bet he's going to be self conscious about them then._

_“_ So you haven’t spoken to him since that night…?”

“I tried, but I bungled it. When I got home, I felt fucking awful. I wanted to apologize but I wasn’t sure what to say. I sent him a few texts, but he never responded,” he says despairingly. 

She runs her index finger up the side of her pint glass, catching a falling drop of condensation on the tip. “Have you tried giving the assistant a call? Does she still update you on how he’s doing?”

“She does, but sparingly. She’s taking care of him all alone in that big house. Probably has her hands full anyway. I’m not gonna bother her.” 

“Give him time Greg,” Sally says, finally draining her first pint and reaching for her second, as the waitress delivers his third. “He’s got a lot of shit to sort through. Cut him, and yourself for that matter, some slack. Yeah?"

"What’s so different about this one anyway?” She says, after a beat. 

“I don’t know. It’s strange. Since the bombings we’d texted a few times. I promised to keep an eye on Sherlock while he was away, so we’d been emailing too. I felt kinda like…” he says, shaking his head, “I don’t know. Maybe there could be something there? He’s different, when he’s one-on-one. A bit more vulnerable I guess? It was good. Whatever it was. I haven’t felt it in years, not since Lisa, before that went to shit. God listen to me, I'm pathetic. I just never thought I'd be alone now, I guess. Maybe s'just my mind imagining something that doesn't exist. It's not like he made a move or anything. Can't imagine why someone like that would want me anyway," he says morosely. 

“Oi, none of that, ok? He'd be lucky to have you - anyone would. You're a great guy. Handsome," she says with a wink. He rolls his eyes but the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. "Loyal, generous and kind," she continues, seeing his little smile. "I could go on," she says.

"Do." he responds playfully, receives a little kick in the ankle under the table for his sass.

"Forget Lisa. She was a bitch, so you can't base anything on her.”

Surprised at her candor, Greg’s eyes snap up. “I thought you guys liked her.”

“No way boss. She didn’t deserve you. We all hated her but you seemed not to, so we tolerated her for your sake. Anyway, If you like this guy, if you enjoyed your chats and you think he’s someone you’d like to get to know better, don’t disappear. He needs time to heal, but he clearly also needs someone other than his assistant and the Frea- I mean, Sherlock, checking in on him every once in a while.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” he offers noncommittally, bringing the pint up to his lips again. “I really had no idea you all hated Lis.”

“How could we not after what she did to you?” She says, dropping a few bills on the table, pushing back her chair, and giving his shoulder a pat. “Let’s call it a night, yeah?” The three beers in an hour had dulled his mind. The thought of his bed is the only thing that motivates him to stand up, and head for the door.

“Hey Sal,” he says, as they step into the cold London air. She turns around to face him. “Thanks,” he offers sincerely. 

“Anytime, Boss,” she says with an easy smile. “That's what friends are for, right? At least one of us should get to have a love-life. You’ll just have to keep providing me with all the sordid details so I can live vicariously through you.” He laughs and rolls his eyes, giving her a final wave before turning in the direction of the tube.


	2. You Thought You Could Find Happiness Just Over That Green Hill

Anthea shares a final coffee with him on the day he’s set to leave, and from her perch on the stool, she eyes him with concern. She’s come around to the idea that this trip will hopefully be restorative for him; that it will bring him some peace and give him time to rediscover his strength. A niggling voice in the back of her mind reminds her he’s retreating. Running. Something she’s never known him to do before. 

Marcella provided her with the address of the house, the landline, and the number for the caretaker who will see to his needs. So why does she still feel so unsettled? She puts her coffee cup down, nauseous with worry. 

When he looks at her these days, he only feels her warmth. He knows she’s worried, and if he’s honest, it’s probably justified. His emotions push and pull him in different directions throughout the course of any given day, and he’s often unable to find solid ground. She’s provided that for him recently, and he’s apprehensive to leave her cocoon of comfort behind. But he knows his mind won’t truly be able to process all that’s happened under her watchful eye. He’s come to realize he values her opinion of him greatly, and he’s worried about her seeing him completely fall apart. He can feel his threads unraveling and unspooling. He needs space to grieve his old life. 

In the days leading up to his departure, he’s instead tried to focus his energy on being strong for her - pushing his feelings deeper inside until he can unpack them later in private. Eating everything she’s put in front of him, even engaging in a few games of chess. She knows him well enough to see right through his act, but he keeps on performing for her anyway. 

She casts her eyes down toward the sugar bowl where she’s mindlessly fidgeting with the spoon. Scooping up a pile and turning the spoon over again, watching each crystal join the others in the bowl. He observes her over the edge of his porcelain mug. She’s lost weight, clearly caused by the stress of the last few months. Worry lines have appeared at the corners of her mouth, where they’ve never been before. The circles under her eyes are more pronounced. _You did this to her,_ he thinks. The realization reaffirms his decision to go. _She too needs time to breathe._

“I’m sorry,” he says to her quietly. “I know the past few months have taken a toll on you.” 

The spoon freezes in mid air. “Don’t do that,” she says, her voice surprisingly loud in contrast to his whispered apology. “You don’t owe me an apology of any kind Mycroft.” Her fingers tighten on the spoon, it quivers in her hand. 

“If anything, I’m the one who should be saying sorry and begging your forgiveness. For allowing this to happen in the first place, for not putting the pieces together quickly enough.” She says, unable to meet his eyes. “For watching your spirit break a little more each day and not having the tools to fix it,” she whispers, her voice cracking a little as the confession sneaks past her lips.

He can’t believe it’s taken them this long to get to this place. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she would feel guilty. Responsible. _Absurd_ his mind supplies, and he tells her so. “Look at me,” he commands. The words said with more heat and conviction than anything she’s heard in his voice in weeks. A flash of his old self. He waits until gentle brown meets ice grey before continuing.

“You are in no way responsible for any of this. And it is not your job to fix me, though I think I understand why you feel you need to try. What I need from you now is what you’ve been giving me since I got home. Your unyielding support. Your affection. Your friendship. I need you to keep being you, Anthea. Can you do that for me? Without meaning to sound dramatic, it's the only way I'll make it through.” Her phone buzzes next to her on the countertop. His car is here. He looks down at the floor as the uncomfortable weight of his confession settles around them. 

“Of course,” she says, sliding off the stool, blinking the tears out of her eyes. Holding his coat out behind him so he can slip his arms in, she brushes an invisible piece of lint off his shoulder. One more chance to ghost her hands over him. To show him she cares. Then he does something so uncharacteristic, she’ll replay it in her mind for weeks to come. 

He turns to face her, and encircles her in his arms, pulling her to his chest. Mindful of the tender scars on his upper body, she rests her head on his shoulder, his gently landing on hers. She tries to project all of the emotions she’s feeling into the hug, wishing he could absorb them through his clothes. 

They stand like that for a moment longer, eyes closed, Mycroft drinking in the aroma of her almond scented perfume. He feels a small piece of his shattered soul begin to come alive again. It quivers in his heart, like a piece of a broken vase, waiting to be glued back together. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since he’s hugged another person, and he finds himself not wanting to let go. But the car is waiting. Her phone buzzes again. Slowly, he withdraws, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead, before grabbing the handle of his suitcase and pulling it behind him out the door. 

\-- 

The panic sets in again when his car door opens at Gatwick Airport. His driver James, is waiting patiently for him to gather his things and exit the vehicle. His chest seizes. He’d forgotten he wasn’t traveling on the jet, his usual means of transportation. This trip was not work related, and as he was now on official leave, Her Majesty’s fleet was no longer available to him. 

He hadn’t been out in public since he had returned home, Anthea keeping his house stocked with anything he may have needed. He tries to get his breathing under control. Though his body is mostly covered by his clothes, the scars on his face and hands are still appalling to look at. _You need only walk through the door and get on the plane,”_ he scolds himself. _Don’t make this into something more than it is._

He takes a deep breath, steels himself, putting one foot out of the car and then the other. James has already removed his luggage from the boot, and popped the handle for him. 

“Have a good trip, Sir,” James offers, eyeing him with concern. This poor man had also suffered at the hands of Delaux’s men, and yet here he is, back at Mycroft’s side without complaint. He makes a mental note to have Anthea organize a raise upon his return. 

“Thank you, James,” Mycroft says, offering his hand for his driver to shake. He tries to convey that he’s grateful for more than just the ride to the airport. Rolling his small bag behind him, Mycroft heads for the security line. His ticket nestled in his coat pocket courtesy of Anthea, who had the foresight to check him in for his flight in advance, sparing him at least one unnecessary interaction with airport staff. He avoids the massive line for security, and rolls his small suitcase up to a security guard, holding out his MI-5 credentials. 

As the other passengers snake their way through the zig-zagging stanchions, he notices a young boy several lanes behind tugging at the hem of his mother’s dress, and pointing in his direction. When her eyes finally meet his, she immediately turns her son around by the collar of his shirt, whispering harshly to him about how rude it is to stare. He winds his scarf tighter around his neck, obscuring the bottom of his face. 

“It’s not because you have anything to hide,” John had started awkwardly the night before as he handed over the Zegna box, “but we saw it while we were on that Mayfair case, and we thought of you.” Mycroft knows that’s not true, but he drinks in the kindness of the lie, running his fingers over the soft wool of the scarf. John had then slid his shoe on top of Sherlock’s foot and pressed down. His brother let out a yelp before adding, “We thought it would bring out the color of your eyes.” Now in the terminal, his fingers toy with the frayed edges of the gift and a small smile ghosts his lips as he thinks of the unconventional family he’s managed to assemble, in spite of himself. 

An announcement comes over the PA system. “All passengers traveling to Olbia, Sardinia please report to Gate 8 for immediate boarding.”

As he’s buckling his seatbelt in first class, his phone vibrates with a text. Anthea, he imagines. Likely just off the phone with James. 

[2:00PM] Assuming you’re on the plane. Make it through alright? A

[2:01PM] Yes, thank you. I promise to send you a note once I’ve reached Luca’s to let you know I’ve arrived. MH

[2:02PM] Thank you. Safe flight, Sir. A

He shakes his head softly, and turns his phone to airplane mode. She’s begun to “Sir” him again, during the course of their normal conversations. A gentle but transparent effort on her part to remind him of his power, a subconscious nudge toward his former self. He’s not sure how he feels about that. 

The seat next to his remains blissfully empty, and the two and half hour flight passes quickly. He’s occupied himself with a paperback copy of a book he’s been reading in cyrillic, trying to focus his mind so completely on the difficult task of translating that it has no room to wander. It’s only when he looks up from the page that he notices the dazzling variety of blues of the Mediterranean Sea out his window, the wild mountains and hills of the stunning island unfurling in the background. _Yes,_ he thinks to himself. _This was the right choice._

A 30-something bronzed man in white linen pants and a sandy colored sweater is waiting for him with a small sign that says _M. Holmes_ as he makes his way to the exit of tiny Olbia airport. The man, who introduces himself as Luca’s nephew Matteo, reaches out for Mycroft’s suitcase, and accidentally makes contact with the hand that’s dragging it behind. Mycroft flinches at the touch, and draws his hand away. Matteo, to his credit, appears unphased. Knowing Luca, he left no stone unturned and both Matteo and the caretaker have been informed to treat him with a gentle hand and to leave him be unless he needs something. 

“Mi dispiace, Signor Holmes ( _I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes)_ . _”_ Matteo says easily, popping the suitcase into the trunk of his dusty jeep. 

“Non è niente ( _It’s nothing)_ ,” Mycroft replies, because it really is nothing. _Get a grip,_ he chastises himself. They set off toward the north end of the island, weaving their way up and down the rocky hills that look over Golfo Aranci, toward Luca’s home in Porto Cervo. His window is open and the air is warm, and though he aches to unwind the scarf from his neck, he’s aware of Matteo casting the occasional curious glance in his direction. He’s blessedly quiet though, a soft italian pop-song floating from the car’s radio is the only soundtrack to their journey. _Jovanotti_ , Mycroft’s mind supplies, unsure of where he’s heard it before. The sun is beginning to dip behind the mountains, and for the first time in weeks, he takes a deep breath, and exhales, and finds that his chest doesn’t hurt. 

Luca’s home is perched on a cliff overlooking the tiny port of Portisco, just beyond the more well known port town of Porto Rotondo. The villa appears to emerge out of the land, the natural sloping arches mimicking the hills above it. The white granite, sourced nearby, gives the property a clean yet rugged look. Matteo withdraws a key from his linen pocket, and opens the door. The space is flooded with the late afternoon light. Mycroft knew the home would be nothing less than spectacular, Lina having impeccable taste, but nothing had prepared him for the views. 

Overlooking the scalloped Sardinian coast, floor to ceiling windows expose the sparkling sea beyond. The vivid hues of azure, sapphire, navy, and teal set something unexpected alight in his soul; no longer suffocating in the wet grey and charcoal backdrop of London. _Yes, this will do nicely._ Beyond the doors, an infinity pool appears to spill its contents directly into the ocean below. “La piscina e calda ( _the pool is warm)_ ,” Matteo says, gesturing in the direction of the pool. _Wonderful,_ Mycroft thinks. Temperatures in March average around 16/17°C and often get chillier at night. He may take advantage of that while he’s here. The wind coming off the water causes the umbrellas outside to sway softly in the breeze. 

“Tutto ok? ( _Everything ok?_ )” Matteo asks, and Mycroft smiles. He’s a carbon copy of his uncle. “Si, si. Grazie Matteo ( _Yes, yes, thank you Matteo_ ).” 

“Va bene,” Matteo smiles. “Chiamami se hai bisogno di qualcosa _(Call me if you need something)_ ,” he says, gently places the key gently on the table, next to a bottle of wine and slips out the door. 


	3. Til Your Shadow Sets You Free

It’s isn’t until the following afternoon that Mycroft remembers he never texted Anthea. He feels gratitude well up in his chest that she’s given him a little space and had waited to check on him, difficult though it must have been for her. 

Her phone rings as she’s putting the kettle on, and she lunges for it, nearly knocking it off the stove. “Sir,” she says breathlessly, trying to mask her concern. “How are you?” On the other end of the phone, his mouth quirks.

“I’m quite alright, dear,” he says. Something lighter evident in his voice. “No need to worry,” he reassures her, sitting in the shade of an umbrella watching the whitecaps on the surface of the water dance and jump below him. Down the line, she releases a breath that she wasn’t aware she was holding. “I apologize for not phoning sooner as I’d promised. I’ve just been getting myself sorted.” 

“Understandable, Sir. How is the villa? Do you have everything you need?” She’s trying not to pry, to keep the conversation casual and upbeat, not wanting to bring down his seemingly genial mood. The first in months. 

“I do, thank you. The villa is spectacular. I’ll send you photos. Luca’s nephew Matteo was in Olbia to meet me, and has already delivered groceries this morning.”

After a beat, he continues. “I think I made the right choice, Anthea.” he confesses, his voice suddenly softer down the line. He glances around, marveling at Lina’s design choices. The space is elegant but relaxed. He feels as if he’s sunken in, the house molding around him like a cushion on a comfortable sofa. Though he’s only just arrived, it feels as if he’s already been here for days. “It’s beautiful, and very peaceful. I hope it will allow me to clear my head.”

“I hope so too, Mycroft. I know it’s uncomfortable, but try and lean into your emotions if you can. Let yourself feel whatever you need to feel. There’s no one around to judge you there. Just...be.” 

He wonders when she began to understand him so well, or if she’s understood the inner workings of his mind all along. “I will. Thank you for checking in on me. I’ll call in a few days.” 

“Ok,” she says, fretting again, “and don’t forget your scar gel, and your suncream.” 

“Yes, mother.” he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes in jest, before bidding her farewell and hanging up the phone. 

\- - 

In the first few days of Mycroft’s trip, he relaxes into the comforts of the house, immersing himself in the warm water of the infinity pool and lighting a fire in the fireplace at night where he curls up with his book. The ingredients Matteo dropped off are perfect for simple pastas, and he leisurely prepares meals for himself for the first time in years, polishing off a bottle of Sardinian Cannonau by himself. 

The trouble begins one morning a week into his stay, while he’s taking advantage of the pool. Lost in thought, his eye on the spectacular scene before him, he doesn’t hear the glass door slide open behind him. 

“Signor Holmes. Buongiorno ( _Mr. Holmes, Good Morning!)_ !” Matteo shouts so as not to startle him. Mycroft turns to wave. “Lascio il cibo in cucina, vuole che accenda la musica? ( _I’ll leave the food in the kitchen, do you want me to turn on the music?)_ ” he says, gesturing over his shoulder? He places the groceries down by the glass door and walks over to an outdoor panel on the wall, flicking a switch as music begins to filter through the speakers hidden artfully around them. 

As the first strains of music float through the air Mycroft freezes in the pool, his back going rigid. He’s back in the container, Delaux leaning over him carving him up. He can smell his stale breath on his face, and hear him humming this same tune. He stiffens, his heart racing, as he grits out “No, Matteo. No,” hoping Matteo will take the hint and turn it off. But Matteo, aware that something isn’t quite right, is instead walking toward the edge of the pool, away from the panel. “Tutto ok?” he asks again. Mycroft’s heartbeat is quickening, and he finds himself gritting his teeth. Breathing is becoming difficult, the tightness in his chest more painful with each inhale. The song is still playing. He grabs on to the edge of the infinity pool with one shaky hand. Harsh inhales through his nose. _Get a hold of yourself. This doesn’t have to happen._

Matteo eyes him, concerned. The man is hyperventilating. Matteo is vaguely aware of the type of work his uncle does, and he had mentioned that Mycroft was coming to Sardegna to recover from a bad experience. The injuries to the man’s body are overwhelming to look at. Obviously recent, some of them are still red and scabbing. Since he met him, Matteo has been pointedly trying not to look at them, instead trying to focus on the man’s steely grey eyes. 

_Cazzo (fuck!)!_ Matteo says to himself, pulling off his sweater and dropping his phone and wallet on the stone before sliding feet first into the pool, his pants still on. When he reaches Mycroft, the man is quaking, tiny ripples spreading out around him in the water. He grabs both of Mycroft’s shoulders, turning the man to face him. “Respiri, Signor Holmes. Respiri, _(Breathe, Mr. Holmes. Breathe),_ ” breathing in and out himself exaggeratedly, trying to encourage the man to do the same. “Che la puo fare _(you can do it)_.” 

Mycroft is gasping for breath now, one hand on his chest, unaware of the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. They roll down his face and land with a plop in the pool. After a few tense minutes, his breathing begins to slow to hiccuping sobs. Matteo continues to whisper to him encouragingly in soft Italian, both still waist deep in the pool, his hands gripping both of Mycroft’s biceps. 

Mycroft can’t look the young man in the eye, turning out of his grip in the direction of the sea. It’s one thing for this to happen in front of people who know you, but somehow worse in front of a stranger. 

“Mi dispiace _(I’m sorry)_ ,” Mycroft whispers, eventually. Horrified. “Non si preoccupi _(Don’t worry about it)_ ,” Matteo assures him gently, letting him catch his breath. The radio has now mercifully begun to play another song. 

“Usciamo ( _Let’s get out_ ),” he says softly, gesturing for them to head for the steps. Mycroft nods tiredly, the panic attack seeming to zap all the energy from his body. They wade through the warm water toward the stairs, Matteo’s warm hand gently guiding him from a position between his shoulder blades. Matteo hops out first, heading for the basket of towels in the corner, hoping to give Mycroft a moment to compose himself. 

_“_ Mi dispiace ( _I’m sorry)_ , _”_ Mycroft hears himself saying again. “La canzone. Mi sono ricordato che l’uomo che mi ha torturato la cantava mentre la faceva... ( _The song. I remembered. The man who tortured me sang it while he…)_ ,” he says, gesturing vaguely to his battered body. Matteo finally casts his eyes over the man’s frame. _His skin looks like the coloring book of a small child given their first crayon_ , Matteo thinks. _No rhyme or reason, just chaos_. He shakes his head again, as if to say Mycroft doesn’t need to explain himself. He tries to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Mi dispiace,” Matteo says, placing a hand over his own heart. 

Matteo bids him goodbye twenty minutes later, after making him a coffee, and lingering to make sure he was really alright, not wanting to leave his uncle’s friend in such a state. Mycroft is positive the young man will phone Luca the second he gets into his car. _Great, another embarrassment to add to the list,_ he thinks. _It was just a song._ That night horrible, vivid nightmares torture him in his sleep, the soundtrack playing behind them. 

\- - 

Upon leaving, young Matteo had in fact not called Luca, opting to phone his assistant instead. She assured him that he did the right thing, staying with Mycroft throughout the attack, and making sure he was settled before leaving. She would take it from here. She calls Anthea next.

‘Grazie, Marci,” Anthea says, shaking her head before hanging up with Marcella. She is already ticking through a packing list, trying to figure out which of her tasks she could pass off to colleagues while she’s away. Then she remembers the approaching summit, and her heart falls. She’s been working on it tirelessly for the past few months on Mycroft’s behalf. If he can’t be there, she needs to be there in his place. 

Her fingers ghost over the keys of her phone, calling up his number from her list of contacts. If she calls him now, he’d know Matteo had reported right back to them. As painful and terrifying as it must have been, he did go there to try and work through some of these issues. Perhaps these little bumps in the road are a necessary step toward healing. She’s glad he wasn’t alone, and hopes the young Italian was able to offer him a modicum of comfort. She wonders if he’ll confide in her when they speak next, but she makes herself promise not to push him. He needs to do it all in his own time.

\- - 

Mycroft spends the next three days in bed, the curtains drawn, swimming in self pity instead of the pool. He wonders if it’s possible that Delaux managed to slice his composure and his strength with one of those jagged pieces of glass, leaving him in the sorry condition he finds himself in now. His body is strangely sore, despite the lack of physical activity. His muscles seemingly punishing him for the panic attack. 

As he lays there in the dark, he wonders what’s going on in London. It’s been a few days since he’s spoken to Anthea, and he can’t imagine Luca hasn’t called her yet. He knows the summit is coming up, and she’s likely busy. _That’s probably why she hasn’t checked in_ . It seems as if his little team has figured out how to navigate without him at the wheel. _They don’t need you anymore,_ his brain whispers. Anthea had slipped temporarily into his role, clearing his inbox and standing admirably in his place at meetings with Alicia and the PM. He can’t imagine himself attending a summit on behalf of Her Majesty anytime soon. _Perhaps they’re better off,_ he tells himself, sinking deeper into despair.

It’s John who has surprisingly taken it upon himself to check in with Mycroft sparingly via text. Sherlock seems to be doing well, buried in a complicated cold case at the moment, John reports. Lestrade on the other hand, has been in rough shape. Mycroft isn’t sure why that’s included in the update. Apparently, drinking far too often, and working himself to the bone.

Mycroft has not spoken to him since that embarrassing day in the library, having not returned any of his text messages. _What was left to say?_ Allowing their little river of silence to grow larger - now too wide to cross without a bridge. He finds that John’s reports of Lestrade’s condition do unnerve him though. Based on his files, he’s never known the man to be a heavy drinker. _It’s none of your business anymore, Mycroft. He’s thankfully allowed Sherlock to continue working with him despite your little scene. That’s all you can ask of him,_ he thinks before drifting into a fitful sleep. 

\- - 

Anthea doesn't hear from Mycroft for nearly a week. Not receiving a response to her messages, and Mycroft making no effort to reach out in return. Worried, she sends the caretaker over under the guise of bringing more groceries. The man tells her Mycroft hasn’t come out of his room, that the groceries he left in the kitchen are still there untouched. 

When Lestrade’s phone rings with “Blocked,” his heart leaps into his chest until Anthea’s voice comes down the line. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Mycroft since he made a fool of himself that day and sent the poor man into a panicked spiral. He’d tried to reach out, but it seemed like the damage was already done. Unable to forgive him for such a callous mistake, Mycroft had turned away, closing the door on what could have been a promising friendship had Greg not destroyed it. He knew the man was struggling, and didn’t want to push him further, so he decided to leave him be. He drains the last of the beer in his bottle, reaching for another as he adjusts his phone on his shoulder. 

“Greg, How are you?” she inquires gently. She’s been monitoring the security reports on Lestrade too. Has seen the excessive drinking, the long hours. She should have paid more attention - _and would have_ \- she tells herself, had she not been distracted by this stupid summit. The man is important to both of the Holmes boys. She vows to do better. 

“I’m fine, thanks Anthea. What can I do for you?” His patience is short these days. It’s been ages since he’s slept properly. “‘S Mycroft alright?” He asks, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

“I’m not sure, actually. I don’t believe so.” That startles Lestrade. 

“What do you mean you don’t believe so? Are you not staying at his anymore?” 

“No. He’s taken some personal time, and is staying at a colleagues vacation home in Italy. Listen Greg, I hate to do this, but I haven’t heard from him in nearly a week. It’s unusual for him not to check in.” Realizing how she phrased that statement, she knows Greg’s mind has taken him back to the last time she called concerned about Mycroft, when they first realized he was missing. She rushes to reassure him. 

“He’s safe, I know that for a fact” she says quickly. “The villa’s caretaker assured me of as much, but he’s stopped eating again, and hasn't left his room in days. Won’t return my messages. I’m worried,” she says. “I have a summit at the end of the week that I must attend in his absence, so I can’t go myself. I was wondering...” 

Running his hands over his face, he groans. “I don’t know Anthea. Last time we saw each other it was bad. I don’t think I’m the best choice. He’ll always associate this horrible experience with me. I hurt him. In more ways than one,” his mind calling up the images of Mycroft whimpering in his arms, and then the harsh sounds of Mycroft’s terrified breathing as Greg fled the library.

“Maybe Sherlock can go check on him.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he remembers Sherlock’s less than stellar bedside manner. 

“No,” she says definitively. “I don’t believe sending Sherlock will be helpful in this case. Please, Greg. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary. I know the last time you saw each other things were...messy. You can’t hold that against him.”

 _Hold it against him?_ Greg thinks to himself. “Anth, I don’t hold anything against him. I scared the shit out of him. That whole ordeal was entirely my fault. Christ, is that what he thinks? That I blame him for what happened that day?”

“He was mortified, Greg. Afraid you’d be repulsed by his perceived show of weakness, not to mention the scars,” she says. 

“Well, then he’s an idiot,” Greg says pointedly. Anthea huffs a laugh around the thickness in her throat. He thinks back to the messages he sent Mycroft in the aftermath, re-reading them in his head. _You're the idiot Lestrade. You should have apologized outright and could have avoided this whole conversation._

Anthea's voice brings him back form his musings. “Yes, he can be. I tried to explain to him that it wasn’t his fault that his body reacted that way, that you of all people, wouldn’t judge him for it, but he closed up. He’s convinced that loss of you in his life is just another casualty of this nightmare. Another thing taken by Delaux.”

“Text me the flight details,” Greg says, determination now evident in his voice. “I’ll go set him straight.” 

Anthea breathes a sigh of relief. “They’re already in your inbox.”

“You knew I’d say yes then?” Greg asks, rolling his eyes at her efficiency.

“I had a feeling, yes. You’re a good man Greg. Down to your toes. I know how much you care for him. I only hope one day he’ll be able to show you how much he cares for you too.” And with that, she rings off. 

_Oh, Myc._ He thinks, shaking his head. He reaches for his phone and fires off a quick text. His brain conjuring the familiar words immediately. 

[9:01PM] Hang on. I’m coming. G


	4. And The Shadows Come To Stay...So You Take A Little Something To Make Them Go Away

When Mycroft’s phone buzzes with a text, the noise wakes him from a fitful four hour nap. He blearily swipes to open his phone and sees Gregory’s name on the screen: Hang On. I’m Coming, the message reads. _You’re dreaming,_ his brain supplies. _Conjuring something that’s decidedly not there_. _Losing your mind._ Swiping to clear the message, he drops his phone back onto the nightstand and he drifts back to sleep. When he wakes, he doesn’t remember the message at all. 

He knows he should eat, but it’s been several days since he’s had a real meal or an appetite of any kind. Wandering into the kitchen, he notices that the caretaker had been by to bring by more food. He must have come in and out while Mycroft was asleep. It makes him think of Luca, who also hasn’t called to check up on him, despite the concerning report he probably received from Matteo. _He’s as embarrassed by the display as I am. I’ll have to apologize to him for putting Matteo in that position._ _Poor boy didn’t sign up to bear witness to my mental breakdown._ He should also call Anthea. It’s been days but he can’t bear to hear the concerned tinge in her voice. 

He shuffles into the kitchen eyeing a newly overstuffed bowl of fresh figs before reaching beyond it for a bottle of wine. Grabbing it by the neck and snagging a glass and corkscrew, he heads outside to the terrace, sinking down next to the pool and dangling his legs over the side. _Maybe Gregory has the right idea,_ he thinks, pouring himself a glass and downing it quickly before pouring another.

In the past two weeks, the air has gotten warmer. A soft fragrant breeze swirls around him. Lost in the hypnotic roll of the waves below, he quickly drains another glass of wine. The quick consumption of the alcohol after several days without food has made his head spin and his mind wander.

He tries to imagine what his life will be like when he leaves this place. _Can you honestly stand in front of Her Majesty again and pledge to protect Queen and Country? How will anyone take you seriously with this face?_ He calls the Queen’s portrait up in his mind, wondering absently if Alicia had filled her in on the details. _If she’d even want you as one of her advisors anymore after such a stunning display of weakness. Unbelievable weakness._ He tips the remainder of the bottle into his glass. 

Instead of the now familiar thrum of pain and self-pity, he notes a searing anger welling up within him, sending fire through his veins. The sudden fury over the unfairness of the whole situation and his inability to deal with it shocks him at first, but he leans into it. Anger is apparently the newest ingredient in the shit stew his life has become.

His blood boils. Fury at the man who did this to him, and at himself for collapsing like a house of cards at the first blow. Disintegrating down to the most pathetic puddle of nothingness in front of people who’ve never seen him flinch. _You’ll never lead a team again. You’ll never have the respect of your peers. Your family. Gregory. Even Sherlock, at his worst, has never sunk this low._

His hands are vibrating with it now, his shoulders shaking. He downs the remainder of the glass and with a trembling hand raises it above his head, hurling it unceremoniously into the pool. It lands with a deeply unsatisfying plop and begins a slow sinking journey. 

_I wish that were me,_ he thinks, as the alcohol courses through him. In his clothes, he slides off the edge into the pool and slips underneath the water, deeper and deeper until his feet brush the bottom. Weightless, away from everyone's concerned stares and judgmental eyes, his mouth opens and he unleashes a scream, his body shaking with the effort of it, forcing the air out of his lungs. Bubbles burst forth fleeing from him toward the top of the pool. He comes up for another breath and once again dives beneath the surface, pouring all of his pain into the warm, blue-tinged abyss. Raging and thrashing with all his might. Above the water, only the sound of the leaves blowing in the breeze, and birdsong. 

Thoroughly exhausted by the effort and emotionally empty now, he drifts toward his forgotten glass and dips under to retrieve it from the pool floor. “You’ve officially lost it” He tells himself out loud. “Well done,” he says to no one. 

\- - 

When Greg arrives at Olbia airport the following morning, Matteo is there to greet him with a cardboard sign. “Buongiorno Signor Lestrade,” he says, reaching out for Lestrade’s duffle. 

“Cheers mate,” Lestrade says in return, handing it off to the tanned kid who couldn’t be more than 30. “My English” Matteo says with an unsure smile, “is no very good.” 

“I understand you just fine.” Lestrade says, offering him a grin. “Do we go to hotel? Or straight to villa?” Matteo asks, as he’s walking around the passenger side of the Jeep. 

“Hotel, I think. Can’t show up looking like this,” Lestrade says gesturing to himself. Matteo just smiles, and Greg isn’t sure if the kid understood a word of that, but they set off in what he hopes is the direction of the hotel. He needs time to prepare himself to see Mycroft, to figure out what he’ll say. He texts Anthea to let him know he’s arrived and asks if she’s given the man a heads up. He’d hate to drop in on him unannounced again. Today is the first day of her summit. He receives no response. 

Matteo’s jeep winds through the rocky hills and skirts along the cliffs of the stunning Costa Smeralda. Lestrade gazes out the window in amazement. On the plane, he’d read all about the island in the in-flight magazine, learning about the topography, the food, the variety of activities available here. He wonders absently if he’ll be able to convince Mycroft to venture out. Unsure of what state he’ll find the man in. He takes a deep breath of the salty air. _Nothing a good ocean breeze can’t fix._

As they pull into the hotel parking lot, Matteo gestures to a pristine white villa on the hill a few hundred feet above them where Mycroft must be staying. “Quella è la villa ( _That is the villa)_.”

“Gratz-e Matteo,” Lestrade attempts, his Mancunian accent coming through. Matteo smiles. “I’ll walk up to see him later. Thanks again mate,” he says, hoisting his duffel over his shoulder and turning toward check in. 

On the plane, Greg had carefully gone over everything that had happened with Mycroft these past few months in his mind. He needed to approach this carefully. He needed to somehow convince Mycroft that he wasn’t at fault for the reaction he had to the breaking glass, that Greg didn’t find him repulsive, or pathetic for that matter. That he wanted to be a shoulder to lean on, to help him get better and hopefully set them back on the track they were on before all of this happened. 

\- - 

Two hours later, wandering up the driveway to the beautiful villa, Greg runs through his carefully planned approach in his mind. While he really wants to pull the man into a hug, he knows he’s approaching an injured animal. That he needs to proceed slowly and carefully. That there’s always a risk it will run off. 

However, all of his best laid plans go out the window when Mycroft opens the door, and instead of his prepared speech, his brain seems to short-circuit and what comes spilling out is “Did you know that there are more sheep than people on this island?” 

Mycroft freezes, momentarily confused by the non-sequitur and seeing Gregory on his doorstep hundreds of miles from home. Greg’s cheeks flame. _What the hell. Where did that come from?_ It was a fact he’d read in the magazine on the plane. He’s not sure why his brain conjured it at that very moment, and chose to expel it out of his mouth, but Mycroft is staring at him now as if he has three heads. 

“I...Gregory...what?” 

Greg gets a look at him for the first time in weeks, and is pleased to see that his scars have continued to heal. His face is still a tapestry of swooping and swirling red lines, but they look less angry, less raw. He’s lost weight, the long-sleeve shirt is baggy and the linen pants he's wearing are hanging off of his hips. The bags under his eyes also look worse. He looks exhausted, and ill. 

“What are you doing here Gregory?” His voice is hoarse. _Perhaps he really is unwell._ Greg thinks. His body is behind the door, his face peeking out the side, almost as if he’s using it as a barrier between himself and his visitor. Greg notices and tries to appear less threatening, stepping back and putting his hands in his pockets. 

“I...Anthea was...I,” he scrubs his hand over his eyes in frustration. This was not the way this was supposed to go. “Mycroft there’s been an awful misunderstanding.”

“And you flew all the way to Italy to correct it?” Mycroft says, eyeing him skeptically from behind the half-opened door. 

“Yes,” he says. Finally feeling the air come back into his lungs. “Yes, it needed to be done in person and as quickly as possible. Can I…” he says gesturing to the door. Mycroft hesitates for a moment, and Greg is afraid he’ll turn him away, but he steps back and opens the door wider, allowing Greg to slip inside. He hopes it’s a good sign. That Mycroft might be willing to let him in in other ways. 

He looks around, momentarily distracted by the beauty of the house. “Nice place,” he whistles. Mycroft nods. This is awkward.

His diplomatic hat snapping on, he turns to Greg. “Can I...get you anything? A coffee? Perhaps a glass of wine? It is nearly noon.” _Please say wine,_ Mycroft thinks. _I’ll need alcohol to survive this conversation._

“Yeah,” Greg says. While he wants the liquid courage the wine would provide he says, “Coffee would be tops, thanks.” He’ll need a clear head to navigate this conversation. Mycroft’s shoulders fall an imperceptible inch. He parks himself on a stool by the counter and watches Mycroft go through the motions of making coffee. It gives him a chance to observe his friend again. The man’s movements are a little stilted. Greg wonders if it’s his sudden appearance that has Mycroft on edge, or if this is how he’s been since Greg saw him last. If the scars are still giving him grief. Uncertainty doesn’t sit well on his shoulders. 

Mycroft places the coffees on a tray, plating a few biscuits and adding the sugar and milk jugs, before nodding to Greg in the direction of the sun-drenched deck, wincing as the sun hits his eyes, which had only been exposed to darkness in recent days. 

“Amazing,” Greg murmurs as he follows him outside taking in the view. He places the tray down at a small tiled table with an umbrella and two wire chairs, and moves to sit down. Slowly, his arm gripping the edge of the tile as he gently lowers himself down to the seat. _Cuts must still be bothering him,_ Greg thinks, as he feels his heart twinge. It’s been nearly two months. 

Mycroft is looking at Gregory now. The dark circles under his eyes have become more pronounced since he saw him last. He looks older somehow, though Mycroft can’t quite pinpoint why. There’s tension in the man’s usually relaxed frame. He busies himself adding milk and sugar to his coffee as he waits for Gregory to start. 

\- -

“I won’t ask you how you’re feeling, since I know it’s probably a loaded question.” he starts. “But I need to apologize.” Mycroft is swirling the spoon in his cup distractedly. Pointedly looking anywhere but at Greg.

“Myc,” he says gently. “Can you look at me? This is important.” The top of Mycroft’s head rises slowly, until his eyes meet Greg’s. He’s scared. Greg can see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes, as if he’s almost positive something horrible is about to happen. Greg wishes he could reach his hand across the table to reassure him. But he doesn’t. 

“Listen,” he says. “What happened at your flat that day was horrible.” Mycroft flinches. “No, listen. It was all my fault. I should have been more careful, and more importantly I should have stayed to make sure you were alright. I was just so upset with what I’d done and Anthea seemed to think me not being there would help settle you. The look on your face, god. The idea that I caused you to relive that. It makes me want to vomit every time I think about it...and I’m just...so sorry.” The words tumble out of him in a rush. He continues, his voice heavy with emotion. 

“Anth, told me that you were embarrassed, that you thought I’d fled from you because you had a panic attack, because of the scars.” This time Greg does reach his hand slowly toward Mycroft, both watching it as it makes it’s journey across the table before landing on the one not stirring the coffee. Mycroft forces himself to relax. _Breathe._ He commands himself. _Don’t make a scene._

“I need you to know it was nothing like that. Considering what you went through, what that bastard did to you, I’m surprised you’re not having them more often.” He says, swallowing to clear his throat. _Little do you know,_ Mycroft's brain unhelpfully supplies. 

“I’m worried about you, Myc,” he finishes softly, “that’s why I’m here.” There are glassy tears in Greg’s dark eyes now and for the life of him, Mycroft can’t understand why. _Why do you even care? Why are you here?_

“Of course I don’t blame you for any of that,” he says coldly, pulling his hand out from underneath Greg’s. “It’s my utter failure to maintain my composure that caused all of this in the first place.” Across the table, Greg is shaking his head as if to protest. Mycroft holds up his hand. 

“I appreciate you coming all this way to explain this to me, Detective Inspector, but it doesn’t change the fact that this is who I am now. That I can’t be around broken glass without completely losing my mind. That I am disfigured. Disgusted with myself every time I catch my reflection in the mirror.” His voice is rising now, the cup in his hand now vibrating with anger as a small splash of hot coffee jumps over the edge. He abandons the cup, but continues his rant.

“That I haven’t left the house since I arrived because I don’t want to be something everyone stares at. That this life I’ve worked so hard to achieve has CRUMBLED after just three miserable days. I used to topple governments single handedly. Do you understand? Now I fall to pieces when a goddamn song comes on the radio. Of COURSE I was embarrassed,” he roars now on the edge of his seat. “Mortified! I’m STILL mortified. The way you found me, Greg. Bleeding, soaked in my own mess.” He’s horrified to realize that once again hot angry tears are pooling in the corners of his eyes, toppling the final dominos of dignity he has left. He looks down at his feet and then whispers almost imperceptibly, “why couldn’t it have been someone else?” he asks almost pleading. “Anybody but you.” 

“Just go, Gregory. You’ve said your piece. I don’t blame you for anything, alright?” His words are hollow now. Emotionless. “You can leave here with a clear conscience, and can report back to Anthea that I’m still alive on your way to the airport.” 

Taking the hint, Greg stands up from the table, but doesn’t leave.

“Mycroft,” he says softly. Mycroft doesn’t look up.

“I’m staying just down the road at the hotel near the port. I’ll give you some space, yeah? But I’m not leaving until I know that you’re ok, no matter how long that takes. Got me?,” he says with a conviction he's never felt before. Mycroft needs him, and he’s going to stay until he figures out how to put the broken pieces of this man back together again. 

“'M not giving up on you, Mycroft. Don’t give up on yourself.” Greg says softly to him before he turns back the way he came toward the front door. 

Mycroft watches Gregory retreat down the driveway. _I believe I already have._


	5. I Could've Done So Many Things Baby, If I Could Only Stop My Mind

The following morning, Greg phones Anthea to give her an update. He’s glad he came, he tells her. Mycroft isn’t doing well. As he sips his coffee on the little balcony of his hotel room, he can’t get Mycroft’s words out of his head. “ _Tell her I’m still alive_ ” he had said. The thought never occurred to him that there was a chance he wouldn’t be. The idea makes him want to run up the hill and pound on the door until the man lets him in. _Tread carefully, Greg,_ he tells himself. _He is so fragile. You don't want to tip him over the edge. You did promise him space._

Later that day, he thinks about how best to approach Mycroft, waffling back and forth about the tone of his message - should he make a joke to try and put the man at ease? He settles on...

[1:00PM] Let’s finally have those drinks, then. G

Greg thinks it’s a safe bet. He’s offering something easy, and giving the man space with the open ended invitation. Giving Mycroft the opportunity to back out, so he feels like he has a choice. 

Mycroft stares at the messages on his phone. Above Greg’s bizarre offer for drinks, _Hang On. I’m coming,_ stares back at him, and a few above that _Hang on. We’re coming_. 

_I’m not sure how much longer I want to hang on,_ he thinks. It's clear that his disastrous display of emotion wasn't enough to scare Gregory off yesterday, so today he opts for politeness. 

[1:25PM] Gregory, I really do appreciate you coming all this way to check on me. I promise, I’m alright. You can go now. There’s usually a late afternoon flight back to London. Don’t you have work to be getting back to? MH

_There. Go._ Mycroft thinks, before his phone pings immediately. He sighs. 

[1:26PM] Nope. Took my annual leave. Nothing to rush back for. Let’s have drinks later. G

[1:28PM] There’s no need to frighten every child in town. I haven’t been out of the house since I arrived. MH

[1:29PM] Come off it, Myc. No one will point and laugh. I promise. If they do, they’ll have to deal with me. All the more reason to venture out together. A little fresh air will do you good. G

Mycroft huffs. _Gallant Greg ready to jump in to defend his honor._ _What a pathetic princess you’ve become._ As he’s contemplating a sarcastic reply, another message follows. 

[1:34PM] Trust me. G

_I do,_ Mycroft thinks to himself. _It’s me that I don’t trust._

Throughout the afternoon, the more he considers it though, the more he realizes he wants to have drinks with Greg. Maybe they can pretend for a moment that his life hasn’t completely fallen apart. _Perhaps_ , he considers, _this will be an opportunity to finally build that bridge over the wreckage of our ruined friendship. Trust him._

Hours later, his phone buzzes. 

[5:16PM] Alright. MH

Greg lets out a little whoop! when he reads Mycroft’s message. _Baby steps,_ he says to himself. Later that afternoon he wanders down to the concierge desk to ask about the best spot for a drink. The man recommends a popular trendy sunset spot called Phi Beach, which Greg decides is probably not right for Mycroft when he mentions a DJ. He then suggests perhaps they would enjoy a walk around a nearby port. _Perfect._

Early that evening, Mycroft finally phones Anthea. She’s in the middle of a boring presentation, listening to the Israeli ambassador drone on about a matter that everyone thought was settled weeks ago, so when she sees his name appear on her screen, she excuses herself immediately, citing an emergency. 

“Sir?” She asks, whispering timidly into the phone, trying not to spook him. 

“Hello, my dear,” he says. She sighs, the familiar cadence of his voice relaxing her immediately. He sounds tired. Hoarse - like he’s been screaming. 

“God, it’s good to hear your voice,” she says earnestly. 

Mycroft shakes his head tiredly. _You're the only one who thinks so._ “Likewise. Forgive me for not reaching out to you sooner. I meant to, it’s just that I’ve been... well, admittedly I don’t have an excuse. It's been a difficult few days,” he says. “I’m sure by now you’ve heard I had another incident,” sneering the last word. The admission hangs in the air between them. _Let him come to you,_ she tells herself. 

“It’s fine, Sir. Really. As long as I know you’re alright. You are, aren't you?” 

_That question is complicated,_ he thinks. He doesn't feel alright. He's not sure how he feels. But, he doesn't want to scare her.

Instead, he continues. “And then in recent days, I’ve been...somewhat occupied by a wayward visitor from London.” A frustrated tone tinged with a hint of teasing creeping into his voice. 

“So he made it then.” She says. “How’s that going?” 

“I should fire you for your meddling,” he scolds her lightly. “He...we spoke for some time. I’ve tentatively decided to try to be open to the idea. There’s something calming about his presence.” She nods, even though he can’t see her through the phone.

“I managed to thoroughly embarrass myself again in front of him yesterday. I yelled at him and tried to send him away, but for some reason he has insisted on staying until he “knows that I’m ok” - whatever that means. We’re supposed to be meeting for drinks later.” 

“You’re going out?” She says, shocked. She had heard from the caretaker and Matteo that Mycroft had confined himself to the property, not even leaving the gates to go for a walk down to the beach. 

“This evening. He insisted, though I still think it’s a terrible idea,” he says, shaking his head.

“He’s good for you, Mycroft,” she says quietly. “He wants to be there. He has no ulterior motives. He genuinely cares for you.” 

“Apparently so. I just can’t understand why.” 

In the background, one of Anthea's aides is gesticulating wildly, trying to get her attention to tell her she’s needed back inside. “Sir, I have to go, I’m so sorry. I’m just at the summit and Nachim is being particularly ornery today.” 

The summit! He’d forgotten about the summit! “’Oh, Anthea. I’m sorry! I’d forgotten you’d be right in the middle of that. Tell Nachim...” he starts, and then stops. _Maybe it’s not your place anymore. She’s got it under control._ “Nevermind.”

“It’s alright,” she rushes to reassure him. “I’m so glad you called. Nachim could do with a few minutes to cool off anyway.” 

“I am as well,” he says, and he’s surprised to find he means it. 

\- - 

When Gregory arrives at the villa later that night to pick him up, he looks as if he'd been here in Sardinia all along. Relaxed, somehow already a trace of a tan, sporting a white linen shirt, and khakis, a sweater thrown round his shoulders. Mycroft on the other hand, has been fretting about his outfit. He hadn’t planned to see anyone, much less go out. His suits, his usual armor, back in his closet in London. He opts for khaki pants, a collared shirt and a light sweater on top, and wraps the scarf Sherlock and John gave him around his neck, grateful the chill in the air gives him an excuse to cover up. 

Greg smiles brightly when he sees him, and pulls open the door of the waiting taxi. “Nice scarf,” he says, and Mycroft searches his face to see if he’s teasing. He’s not. 

“Thank you,” he replies awkwardly. “A gift from John and Sherlock before I left.” The mention of Sherlock launches Greg into a story about a case they’d been on weeks earlier, where Sherlock had slipped on wet paint and wound up with a huge yellow stripe on his back. Greg whips out his phone to show Mycroft a picture, secretly pleased that the man seems to be relaxing in his company. _Is that a smile?_

By the time they pull up to the port side town of Porto Cervo though, Mycroft seems to have retreated back into himself. _This is a mistake._ Mycroft tells himself. _Let's turn around and go back. I shouldn't be here._ Anxious, his back is rod straight and he’s fidgeting with the edges of his scarf. Greg’s ungainly “Gratz-eee” as he’s hopping out of the taxi snaps him out of it. He's holding out a hand to help Mycroft out of the van. He grasps it lightly in his own, using Greg’s arm as leverage to hop down. _“Grazie.”_ Mycroft mumbles at him, his accent flawless. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever Posh.” Greg says jokingly. “I like my rough-n-tumble version of Italian better.” He understands what Gregory is doing. Teasing him without any heat behind it, trying to keep the mood light as they begin to wander aimlessly around the beautiful port. Trying to make Mycroft feel at ease. He's surprised to discover that it’s working, as he feels the tightness in his chest release a bit.

Mycroft notes that Greg has slowed his gait so that he can easily keep pace with him. The cuts on the bottom of his feet are still irritating. He imagines everyone around them is staring at him, wondering how it’s possible that this attractive man has been stuck with this mutant at his side. He resists the urge to tighten the scarf around his neck.

Suddenly he stiffens, seeing an Italian Cabinet Minister he recognizes walking toward them in the opposite direction. Porto Cervo is a popular spot for the wealthy Italians no matter the season. “Alright Myc?” sensing him tense up. “Fine" he grits out, "Just an old associate I recognize and would rather avoid.” He knew coming out in public would be a terrible idea. His eyes are flitting anxiously from side to side now, looking for an escape so he can avoid what will surely be an awkward conversation.

_Shit,_ Greg thinks. _Do something._ Sensing his discomfort, Greg falls back on silliness, thinking back to their earlier conversation and offering him the crook of his arm. “Signor,” he says jokingly in his best impression of Mycroft’s RP accent, “May I escort you to dinner?” Hoping to take Mycroft’s attention off the man walking toward them. Against his will, Mycroft’s lips quirk into a small smile. _Gregory, you saint._

“Grazie,” Mycroft says, reaching out tentatively to wind his arm through Gregory’s. He promptly turns them around, and ushers them in the direction of a tiny cafe with tables that spill out onto the dock. Mycroft marvels at the feel of his arm casually wrapped around Gregory’s. How easily Gregory had offered it. _He’s not embarrassed to be seen with you,_ Mycroft tries to tell himself. _He actually looks to be enjoying himself._ He’ll have to dissect that later when he’s alone. 

Greg looks to Mycroft to order when the waiter arrives, and he does so in a flourish of impressive Italian. “Can’t wait to see what comes out after all that,” Greg says with an easy smile, which Mycroft returns before turning his head to gaze out at the port. 

“Alright?” Greg asks again, bumping Mycroft's foot with his own. He nods. “A lot of stimulation here, yeah? I should’ve picked a quieter spot for your first outing. ‘M sorry.” Greg says, acknowledging that maybe he had pushed Mycroft too fast. 

“No,” Mycroft says. “It’s ok. You were right to bring me here. I need to dip my toes back into the real world sooner rather than later.” 

Afraid Greg is angling to initiate another emotional conversation, Mycroft is surprised when he instead asks about the history of the island. Mycroft is only too happy to oblige. The topic is safe, and one that he’s quite knowledgeable about. The conversation flows easily, as drinks and little plates of pane Sarda, fried anchovies, and zucchini flowers appear and disappear from their table.

“And, I did in fact know that there were more sheep than people here,” he says with a smirk, thinking back to the absurdity of Gregory’s initial declaration. “Course you did. You know everything,” Greg says with a teasing roll of his eyes. 

“‘M Glad we finally got to do this,” he says as they’re standing up from the table and offering Mycroft his arm once more. Mycroft hesitates, before winding his fingers around Greg’s bicep.

“Likewise,” Mycroft agrees. And then for some reason adds, “I had planned to invite you to my home that evening, you know. For a tasting of rare whiskies from my personal collection.” _Stupid. Why did you bring that up? You were having such a nice time._

Greg gives his arm a little squeeze of support, imaging any memory of that night will also conjure all of the horrible things that followed. Mycroft focuses on the weight of Gregory’s fingers on his arm, cataloguing the nuances of the little squeeze, instead of the overwhelming memories threatening to flood his mind. He’s yet to unpack them in any meaningful way, instead shoving them further away and turning the mental lock. 

“I’d love to take you up on that when we get home, if the offer still stands,” Greg says gently. In Mycroft’s heart, another piece of his shattered soul quivers, beginning to come alive. 

\- -

[11:25 PM] How was it?! A

She’d sent the text to both of them separately. Just now getting home, she’s eager to free herself from the monotony of the summit and get lost in the details of their evening. She hopes it went well. 

[11:26 PM] It was not as overwhelming as I’d feared. Easier with company. He’s quite intuitive. Thank you for sending him. MH

And from Greg: 

[11:27 PM] He did so well! :) We went down to Porto Cervo for drinks, and ended up having a little bite at a cafe by the water. It’s really good to be with him. Glad I came, Anth. Thanks. G

Reading their messages, she smiles to herself, and for the first time in what feels like months, wonders if things are maybe starting to look up. 

\- - 

That night, Mycroft lies awake, dissecting the evening. Gregory is like a breath of fresh air, and Mycroft can’t help but wonder what he’s getting out of this experience. Coddling Mycroft and contorting himself to cater to the man’s various eccentricities can’t be enjoyable for him. Mycroft will have to ask him outright. His mind functions on data, and he needs to understand. _He'll leave eventually_ , his mind supplies. _He's just trying to be kind. Don't fool yourself into thinking things will continue like this when you get home._

Earlier in the evening, he’d undressed in front of the bathroom mirror before applying Anthea’s ointment regiment to as many scars as he could reach. He didn’t recognize the person staring back at him, finding it hard to juxtapose the imposing, powerful figure he used to be with this weak substitute. A lesser model. If by some miracle, Gregory were ever to want to advance their friendship into something more, Mycroft imagines seeing him in this state will be the thing to finally send the man running for the hills. _Don’t get ahead of yourself Mycroft,_ he tells himself. _He_ _is just trying to be your friend._

A few hundred yards below, Gregory is also still awake. Though he had fun, he’s worried that maybe the evening has been too much for Mycroft. That despite his assurances, the crowded port was overstimulating. Of course, out here on an Island in the middle of the sea, Mycroft would run into someone he knows. Crazy. He thinks about Mycroft hesitating to take his hand and worries that maybe he had come on too strong. That Mycroft felt trapped into going along with his gentle overtures. _You need to let the man heal first, before anything else,_ he scolds himself. 

\- - 

Over the course of the following week, Greg tries to find the right mix of respectful of the man's space, but still supportive. He and Mycroft meet up for a walk along an uncrowded beach, two coffees, a dinner, and a drink. One day they have lunch at a spectacular restaurant Greg’s concierge recommends. The place at first glance appears to be a gas station, which Mycroft eyes skeptically, but once led inside and then out back, reveals a spectacular terrace overlooking the bay. He gets Mycroft to laugh that day, and spends the rest of the afternoon trying to coax it out of the man again. 

Some days, Mycroft is conversational and at ease. Other days, he appears withdrawn. Greg tries not to push him to talk, happy to sit in companionable silence while Mycroft’s mind whirls. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Greg offers once.

“I’m afraid there aren’t enough pennies in the world,” Mycroft had replied. Greg had gently bumped his shoulder as they continued along the beach in a silent show of support, and that was the end of that. 

\- - 

Luca does finally reach out to Mycroft, two weeks into his stay. Mycroft misses his call, but the voicemail suggests that with the arrival of the warm weather, he should reach out to Matteo, who would gladly take them out on Luca’s boat. One day over lunch, Mycroft runs the idea by Greg. 

“That would be amazing. The pictures in the magazine I read on the plane of La Maddalena look stunning. I wonder if it’s close enough for us to go.”

“I believe so,” says Mycroft, who confirms with Matteo and plans are finalized for the following day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you lovely readers! Your comments make my day. I'm so glad you're enjoying the story so far, and hope you enjoyed this little breather of a chapter. 
> 
> A special thank you to the lovely EgMon73, who has generously been correcting my butchered Italian. 
> 
> Some fun notes re: Sardinia 
> 
> If you make it there, the restaurant hidden behind the gas station is called Il Cavallino Bianco in Portisco. Such a fun surprise, especially if you're going with friends who aren't expecting it. 
> 
> Phi Beach also happens to be an excellent cocktail spot with a beautiful sunset and great vibes :) Just not something I'd imagine Mycroft enjoying.


	6. Sometimes You Just Gotta Let It Ride

On the deck of Luca’s spectacular boat, Mycroft watches Greg apply sun cream, whistling to himself as he works the cream into his skin. _I wonder what it’s like to feel that at ease with yourself,_ he wonders. Greg stands up to squeeze more cream out of the bottle. _Good lord, the man is attractive._ Greg catches his eye and winks. Mycroft feels his cheeks heat. 

"Alright?" Greg says with an easy smile, noticing the man's flushed face. _Y_ _ou're still pretty fit I guess,_ Greg's brain tells him. _Better get back into running when you get home._

"Oh yes," Mycroft fumbles, embarrassed. "Just a little warm from the sun." 

"Oh right! That reminds me. Got you something!" Greg reaches into his backpack, pulling out a robin's egg blue rash guard and a white baseball cap with his hotel insignia on it. He tosses both at a startled Mycroft, who manages to snag them out of the air before they sail past him and off the side of the boat. He’s still wearing long linen pants and a light long sleeve tee, despite the warmer temperatures. 

“Picked those up for you at the gift shop at my hotel,” Greg says breezily. “Should give you some protection from the sun, and let you swim.” 

“That was very thoughtful of you, Gregory,” says Mycroft, placing the hat on the seat next to him, while inspecting the other garment. “I don’t think I’ll partake today, but don’t let me stop you.” 

Greg looks up, sunscreen still visible in little white streaks on his cheeks. Mycroft wonders if it would be unwelcome if he reached out with a thumb to rub them in. “You brought your trunks, didn’t you?” 

“I did. But we wouldn’t want to scare away the fish,” he offers, with a self-deprecating smile. _That won’t do._ Greg thinks to himself. 

“Don’t be stupid, Mycroft. ‘S just me here.” He says, gesturing with his hand to the scene around them. “Look at how amazing the color of the water is. We have to jump in at least once. Look at all those little coves! Come on. Come for a swim with me!” 

He finds Gregory’s childish excitement contagious, and before he knows it, he’s coming up the steps from the interior cabin in his swim trunks, the ridiculously colorful rash-guard, and the baseball cap. He’s tempted to wrap a towel around his legs to conceal the now exposed skin.

Greg notices, and attempts to distract him by teasing Mycroft about the hat, grabbing it by the brim and flipping it backwards. "I think it goes this way." 

"I think not," Mycroft says with a laugh, righting it. The everyday item looks completely out of place on his sophisticated head but it does a passable job of shielding his face and the scars from the sun. 

"That's better!" Greg says with a smile. "Glad it fits! Ok, Matteo. Now we're ready!" Matteo smiles at the pair from behind his aviators. 

“Vuolete nuotare qui? _(Do you want to swim here?),_ ” Matteo asks, as he pulls around to the shelter of a small cove. The water, bright, soothing turquoise, and crystal clear, is lapping gently at the sides of the boat. Mycroft takes one look at the smile on Greg’s face, and gives Matteo a nod. “Va bene, ok” he says, dropping the anchor. In a flash, he takes off his own t-shirt, and unbuttons his shorts, revealing an impossibly small bathing suit. He steps up onto the bow of the boat and flings himself gracefully into the sea. Laughing, Greg let's out a whoop and jumps in after him, Mycroft watching with a bemused smile on his lips. 

“Oh wow, Myc,” he says, popping his head up out of the aquamarine water. “You’ve gotta come in for a little. It feels amazing.”

 _Oh, just go,_ his brain nags him. Like so many things outside of his comfort zone that Gregory has gently nudged him into in recent weeks, Mycroft dangles his legs off the side of the boat and slides into the refreshingly cool water. They float around for another fifteen minutes, Mycroft on his back with the sun on his face. He looks relaxed, so when Matteo gestures to ask if he wants to leave, Greg holds up ten fingers, asking him to wait. He’ll allow the man a few more minutes of uninterrupted peace. 

Throughout the day, they putter from cove to cove, one more beautiful than the next. Greg attempts to impress Mycroft with his diving skills, flinging himself off the boat in dramatic fashion in each place that Matteo stops to anchor. Under the brim of his new hat, Mycroft laughs, his troubles somehow drifting further away from the forefront of his mind. He considers himself in this moment, laying in the sun on the deck of a beautiful boat, in this magnificent place, with this wonderful man. _See what happens when you allow good things into your life?_ His brain supplies. _He manages to put you at ease. You CAN feel like this all the time if you want to._ His thoughts are interrupted by Greg's tan body appearing up the ladder. 

"Six out of ten." Mycroft says decidedly, with all the seriousness he can muster. 

"Rude." Greg volleys back, laughing. "That was at least an eight! Nearly got all the way around on that last twist! I blame the Russian judge."

Mycroft chuckles, "Yes, well. They are so often unimpressed by England." 

They snack on salty Sardinian cheese and olives before winding up in front of a tiny strip of sand. Matteo drops the anchor, produces a dive bag, slips into the water, and swims in the direction of the shore. Mycroft looks at Gregory and tilts his head. Greg nods, and they both dive in after him, following in Matteo’s wake. 

When their toes are finally able to touch the sand, they emerge from the sea to find that Matteo’s dive bag had contained a bottle of chilled Vermentino and two plastic cups, which have now been artfully displayed on the beach. Brilliant blue, green, and white sea-glass encircling the bottle. “Guardate _(look)_ ,” Matteo says, coming up behind them with a warm smile, and nodding toward the little mosaic he made. “Vetri di mare _(sea-glass)_.” He then turns back in the direction of the boat, leaving the two to enjoy his little surprise drink. 

_Shit._ Greg’s hand immediately grabs for Mycroft's. “Myc?” Mycroft’s eyes are closed. His chest is rising and falling as he tries to control his breathing. “I’m right here,” Greg says, squeezing his hand tightly, and rubbing up and down his rash guard covered arm with the other. “That’s right, just breathe. You’re safe, I’m right here with you. We’re here on this beautiful beach, and nothing can hurt you here. ‘S just us. Listen for the sound of the waves,” Greg says, trying to bring him back to reality, to ground him. To get him to open his eyes. Mycroft is gripping his hand tightly, his breath coming out in short exhales. 

“D’you want to go back to the boat?” Greg offers. 

No, Mycroft shakes his head, and through gritted teeth he says “No. I’m sorry, forgive me Gregory. I just…” he exhales through his nose. “...need a minute.” 

“Alright, no worries,” Greg says, with a lightness he doesn’t feel. “Take all the time you need. Let's sit.” He places himself between Matteo’s display and Mycroft, so he’s further away from the glass, and gently tugs the taller man’s hand until Mycroft collapses into a seat next to him on the sand. He continues chattering away to Mycroft, hoping to distract him from the paralyzing panic. Little by little, Mycroft appears to be calming. Greg, still gripping his hand tightly offers, “want me to just get rid of it?” 

_Face it. Beat it. Do better,_ his brain chastises him. “No.” Mycroft says, slowly opening his eyes and glancing hesitantly in the direction of the offending display. 

“I need you to help me get past this,” he says with soft determination, his eyes pleading. Greg glances up at him in surprise. Mycroft wants to tackle his fears head on. Here on this tiny strip of sand. If it goes wrong, Greg isn’t sure he’ll be able to get him back to the boat without Matteo’s help.

He eyes the man, who looks like a child in the colorful rash guard and ill fitting baseball cap, his legs curled up to his chest. The look in his eyes nudges Greg along. _Shit. Ok. We’ll do it together._

“Ok,” Greg says with a shake of his head, because he’s willing to do anything to get that stricken look off Mycroft’s face. "We'll go slow though, alright?"

Eyeing the smallest piece of colored glass, he picks a cerulean blue one out of the sand, running it first between his fingers to ensure it’s as harmless as it looks. The corners have been rounded, ground down by the repeated rolling of the waves. It’s a different color than the sea, but shines brilliantly in the afternoon light. 

“Open your other hand,” Greg says, not letting go of the one he’s holding. He’s stunned by the trust that Mycroft has placed in him. That he’s allowing Greg to guide him through what he’s sure is a terrifying experience.

Mycroft doesn’t move but he grounds himself in the feeling of Greg’s hand in his as he feels a little squeeze. _Gregory wont hurt you,_ he tells himself. _Trust him._ One by one, the fingers of his other hand uncurl from a tight fist to reveal a host of criss-crossed scars. _Oh god. Oh god._ He squeezes his eyes shut again, steeling for an imaginary pain.

Greg gently deposits the coin-shaped piece of glass into the bowl of his palm, dropping it from a height so Mycroft doesn’t need to watch Greg’s hand holding the glass approach him. For a moment, everything around them goes quiet. Until Mycroft exhales, and his eyes flick open.

“It’s soft,” he mutters to Greg in surprise, gazing down at his own hand. His fingers are tentatively tracing over the edges of the blue piece. “Yeah,” Greg says, with a small smile, and reaches for another. This time a bright green one with an oval shape. A small cloudy white triangle follows. Mycroft marvels down at the small pieces of glass in his hand. _Brave,_ Greg thinks, his eyes glassy as he watches the scene unfold before him. He’s in awe of his friend. He’s come so far in such a short time. “Proud of you,” he says, this time out loud, gently bumping Mycroft’s knee with his own. Mycroft looks up at him, eyes shining, a look of bewilderment on his face. _Did that really just happen?_

Greg offers him what he hopes is a comforting smile, before standing, brushing the sand off his legs, and holding out both hands out to Mycroft to pull him up from his seat. He knows the experience took a lot out of Mycroft, and though he aches to wrap his arm around the man and offer comfort, he opts to give him space instead. Mycroft, a little dazed, wanders toward the water's edge on his own. He needs space to process what just happened. Behind him, Greg moves to grab the unopened bottle and cups, sweeping a handful of the sea glass into his bathing suit pocket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit shorter than the rest, but I thought that was ok because it was emotionally jam-packed. Sometimes we need a little push to face our fears, and sometimes we just need to know someone will be there to catch us if we fall, right?


	7. Sticks And Stones May Break Your Bones, But Words Can Break Your Heart

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asks nearly a week after the sea-glass incident.

Greg, who is washing tomatoes in the sink in Luca’s kitchen, looks up. _It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?_ He thinks to himself, turning the tomato over. “What do you mean?” He says, confused. “I have to wash these before we can use them in the salad.”

“What are you doing here, Gregory? Still, I mean.” Greg looks up, confusion swimming in his eyes. “What do you stand to gain from this sojourn other than a few weeks under the Italian sun? I don’t...I’m struggling to understand. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the support you’ve given me over the past few weeks - I do, Gregory. More than you know. But I have to know what drives it. It doesn't make sense to me.”

A host of emotions flicker across Greg’s face. Mycroft catalogues each one: Hurt, Confusion, Anger, Pain, Sadness.

“You,” Greg answers, simply. “In whatever form that takes. And peace of mind, maybe, if I’m honest. I want to see you back in your own skin." They both wince. “Not like that. Sorry, I just mean I’d like to see you feeling comfortable in your shoes again,” trying for a different metaphor. “Even if they’re a different pair than you used to wearing. Not trying to be dramatic, but I like you,” _Shit, way to show him your cards._ “I mean, I’m fond of you,” he attempts to correct, _idiot. That’s not better._ He soldiers on,“...and it bothers me to see you so unsure of yourself.” 

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. “I’m not angling for anything from you though Myc, if that’s what you’re asking.” He eyes Mycroft curiously. “You do know that, right? I’m sorry if it’s felt like I’ve been pushing you into something you’re not comfortable with, or that you don’t want. That I’ve been too much. God that’s the last thing I’d want,” he says - worry evident in his voice. 

Mycroft digests his words. “I...No. That’s not it at all. Nothing that's been unwanted, and you’ve been very attentive to my absurd rollercoaster of emotions. Very kind.”

“I hate that word,” Greg says suddenly, slamming his hand down on the marble counter harder than he means to, the tomato he’s washing plops into the sink. Greg takes a breath, dropping his other hand to the counter, and letting his head fall between his arms. _Calm down._ Softer this time, he continues. _“Kind.”_ he says with disdain. “You wield it as if it’s some sort of justification for me being around, as if I wouldn't be here with you if I wasn’t trying to be polite or something. I would hope you know me well enough by now to know that’s not true.” Greg says, shaking his head softly. Mycroft stares back at him silently. 

“I can’t figure out why you’re trying to question my motives now, Mycroft. After everything. Have I done something to piss you off? All I want to do is spend time with you, to learn about what you like, and what you don’t. What makes you laugh. That’s what I’ve gotten out of this so far.” Greg says, clearly frustrated. “What about you though? What do you want, Mycroft?” He sounds tired now. “This is a two way street.” 

Startled at the use of his full name, when he’d finally just begun to get used to Myc, he looks up. 

“I...I don’t know,” he confesses quietly, wrong-footed. He hadn’t meant to anger Gregory. “I want my life back. In my old shoes, to use your metaphor. I don’t want to have to find new ones. I want to be able to make decisions again without second guessing myself or looking over my shoulder. Without worrying if there’s a panic attack waiting around the corner to debilitate and embarrass me. I want to continue to do my job, and to have people be able to rely on me again.”

“And,” he hesitates... _S_ _ay it. Be honest with him. Saying it makes it true,_ his brain urges him. He’d come to this realization the night before and hadn't intended to tell Gregory at all, but it seems important suddenly.

“Despite how absolutely awful I feel most days, despite how I hate what I’ve become, despite how often my mind tries to convince me otherwise, I... I believe that…” he gulps trying to swallow around the words that seem stuck in his throat. “I do want to continue living this life.” The admission startles both of them in the quiet of the kitchen, hanging heavily around them like a fog. 

Greg reaches for the dish towel, wiping his hands on the fabric before coming around to sit next to Mycroft on a stool. Bumping Mycroft’s knee with his, a gesture that’s become uniquely theirs in the past several days. Mycroft refuses to meet his eyes, hands wringing in his lap. Greg bumps him again, this time sending Mycroft’s knee floating to the left, as he slides off his stool, stepping into the space in between Mycroft’s legs. His arms seem to float around Mycroft’s shoulders in slow motion, pulling him into an awkward but warm embrace - Mycroft still on the stool, Greg standing. His exhausted eyes fall shut, and he allows his head to fall forward into Greg’s chest, inhaling Greg’s unique aroma of citrus and sandalwood. His arms wind around Greg’s torso and suddenly, without warning, the tears come. 

_Finally,_ Greg thinks to himself, relieved. He had been anticipating this. Mycroft had been so tightly coiled, the spring was bound to break eventually. He moves them gently in the direction of the sofa, traveling as one, Mycroft clinging to him. They collapse together, still intertwined. Mycroft sobs into his shoulder, while he rubs soothing circles on the politician's back in silence. 

_Finally,_ Mycroft thinks, horrified and relieved in equal measure. He needed this. His mind conjures Anthea’s words from an earlier conversation. _Let yourself feel whatever you need to feel. Just...be._ And so he does. 

After nearly an hour, his sobs have subsided, leaving an embarrassing bout of sniffling hiccups in their wake. He lifts his head from where it’s resting against Greg’s chest to meet Greg’s eyes. _I’m sorry,_ his mouth wants to offer automatically, but he knows the man won’t allow it. Instead, a small “thank you,” is what comes out, his voice hoarse. He drops eyes, focused on the large wet spots he’s left on the man’s t-shirt. He’s exhausted and his head is pounding, all the crying taking its toll. 

“Di Nee-en-tay _(It's nothing),”_ Greg replies, causing Mycroft to huff a laugh through his tears, the weight of the past hour evaporating immediately around them. “Matteo taught me.” 

“Niente.” Mycroft says. “Nee-en-tae,” Greg attempts to parrot. Mycroft just shakes his head, lips curled up in a small smile. Greg gives his arm a little squeeze and pops off the couch.

“Let me grab you some water. Be back in a mo,” giving Mycroft a few minutes to catch his breath. A hand holding a plastic cup appears in front of Mycroft’s eyes. Water and a cold washcloth, which Greg gently brings to Mycroft’s face, wiping away the remnants of his tears. 

“You still hungry for dinner? Or d’you wanna have a lie down for a bit?” He watches Mycroft massage his forehead with one hand, trying to stave off what he imagines will be a brutal headache. Mycroft glances at the clock. He’s exhausted but it’s only 7:15 and Greg is his guest. He really should insist on dinner. But then Greg takes the decision out of his hands. 

“Actually, you just relax here. M’ just gonna make you a little toast, ok? Get something in your stomach, get you some paracetamol, and then you can crawl into bed and try and get some sleep.” That Mycroft doesn’t protest tells Greg he’s made the right choice. Worn out and happy to be given instructions instead of making decisions on his own, Mycroft puts the wet towel against his forehead, leaning back against the couch and closes his eyes. 

Greg stays with him until he’s finished the toast before bidding him goodnight. He knows that Mycroft is a cerebral man, that he’ll need space to dissect each and every moment of the evening. To digest everything that’s happened. He only hopes the man will get some rest first, and leave the analysis til morning. 

\- - 

For the first time since he arrived in Italy, Mycroft sleeps without nightmares. When he wakes in the late morning, his head is no longer pounding, and though his throat still feels raw, he draws in a breath, and realizes his chest isn’t tight, that he can finally breathe. _Respiri._ He hears in Matteo’s voice. 

Down the hill, Greg has been up since seven, laying in bed running through their conversation from the night before. Several times he reaches for his phone, wanting to check in on Mycroft after what was an emotionally draining night for them both, but waits until late morning before he allows himself a quick text. Just to let him know he’d not run off.

[10:42AM] Morning :) Promised myself I would leave you be today so you can unwind a bit, but just wanted to check and see how you were feeling? G

How is he feeling? Mycroft considers the question, taking an inventory of his mental state before responding. 

[11:03AM] Good Morning. I feel surprisingly well, all things considered. I slept in unusually late this morning, but I imagine my body needed the rest. MH

[11:10AM] Good. Take another two paracetamol just to be sure. Enjoy the day. Weather is beautiful. G

And then because it’s been eating at him since last night, and he was unable to say it to Mycroft’s face, he types out a message. _Are you about to make things weird?_ He asks himself. It takes a few minutes for him to decide before finally liberating the message from his draft folder.

[11:23AM] Hey - Just wanted to say, because I wasn’t sure how to last night...I, for one, am very glad you’ve decided that you want to keep at it. G

Mycroft reads the message once, and then again. Letting it sink into his bones, absorb into his soul, seep into his brain. 

Greg watches the typing bubble appear and then disappear, and appear again. 

[11:29AM] Come spend the day with me here, please. MH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end, friends. Only a few chapters left! Thank you for continuing to follow along. I know it's been a lengthy journey!


	8. There Are Stars In the Southern Sky, And If Ever You Decide You Should Go...

Four days later, they make their way toward Olbia, Greg in the back seat of Matteo’s dusty Jeep, and Mycroft in the front. 

“Grazie Mille, Matteo. Per Tutto. _(Thank you so much Matteo. For everything._ ),” Mycroft says sincerely, climbing out of the jeep and offering Matteo his hand. “Di niente,” he says. Mycroft catches Greg's eye with a small smile. Greg winks. As Mycroft turns to grab the handle of his suitcase, he doesn’t see Matteo slipping something into Greg’s hand. Greg smiles conspiratorially, and shoves his hand in his pocket giving the young man a nod of thanks. 

\- - 

“Alright?” Greg asks him once they’ve found a seat in the terminal. “Been quiet all morning," he says, studying the man. "Nervous about heading home?” Somehow reading Mycroft’s mind. 

“I’m quite sad to be leaving actually. This trip, and my wayward visitor,” he casts a genuine small smile at Greg, “have been eye-opening for me. I knew I’d have to return home eventually, but I find myself apprehensive to return to my “real life,” whatever that may look like.” 

“Yeah, I can understand that,” Greg says. “‘S alright. We’ll just take it day by day.” 

Mycroft’s heart flips at that. A large part of his apprehension stemming from his worry about what would happen between him and Greg once they were no longer under the Sardinian sun. _We’ll take it day by day._

The quick flight home is uneventful, Greg plays on his phone while Mycroft works through another chapter of his book. When they land at Gatwick, he’s surprised to see Anthea waiting for them at baggage claim. 

“Anth!” Greg smiles warmly, pulling her into a one-armed hug. He feels like they’ve gotten close enough to warrant it over the past few months. “Miss me?” he jokes. She throws her arms around his shoulders. Mycroft watches the two greet each other with a bemused smile. When had they gotten so comfortable? 

“Oh yes, quite fiercely,” she volleys back, rolling her eyes before turning to her boss. 

“Welcome home, Sir,” she says softly, falling into step next to Mycroft. “Thank you, my dear,” he says with a small smile. _God, it’s so good to see you,_ they both think. 

Greg trails behind them with the luggage, a grateful smile on his tanned face.

“Did you know that Sardinia has more sheep than people?” He asks once they’re in the car. Anthea looks to Mycroft, who is trying to conceal a smile, before looking back to Greg. _He's so good for you,_ she thinks. _You look a thousand pounds lighter._ Greg then launches into a day by day description of their activities, and before he knows it, they’ve glided up outside the door of his flat. 

“Well, this is me,” he says. _Obviously. Idiot._ His brain supplies. He wants to thank Anthea and Mycroft for the trip, but isn’t sure if that’s appropriate considering the circumstances so instead he opens the door and hops out, pulling his duffle behind him. 

“See you Anth,” he says easily, winking at her, his eyes sparkling. “Myc, text you later, yeah?” And with that, he’s gone. 

“Myc” Anthea says in the silence of the car, testing the nickname on her tongue as they watch Greg’s retreating frame. 

She’s satisfied with herself. Mycroft can tell. Clearly assuming by their newfound closeness that Greg’s unexpected visit was a success. Her eyes are bright, _She’s happy. No, not just happy, she’s happy for you_. Fondness blooms in his heart, and he reaches for his hand, giving her fingers a squeeze. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he says to her with mock sternness. 

\- - 

_Five days later_

[4:35PM] Let’s try this once more then, shall we? Can I interest you in a drink this evening to say thank you for all that you’ve done? M

[4:36PM] Perhaps a tasting of rare whiskies from my personal collection at my flat? I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to thank you properly, but it certainly would be a start. M

[4:38PM] Grazie, signor. That sounds lovely. It would be my pleasure to imbibe with you this evening. G

[4:40PM] Rogue. 7PM. MH

\- - 

From: <<Unknown Sender>>

To: G.Lestrade@NSY.co.uk 

Monday, April 22, 12:47 AM

Subject: Tonight

_Gregory,_

_Thank you for joining me tonight. I had a wonderful time. I hope you enjoyed yourself as well._

_I believe I’ve had two glasses too many, so If you’ll permit me, I need to share some things with you. I should have said them to you this evening, but alas, it appears despite relocating some of my faculties, I haven’t yet rediscovered my courage. It’s easier to make these confessions from the safety of this place behind my screen._

_The few days before your arrival in Sardinia were some of the darkest of my life save for those three with Delaux. I now realize that however painful, they were necessary. It was essential for me to determine whether there was anything more I could contribute to this world; to my work, or to the few people in my life who matter to me._

_Throughout this process I’ve come to the realization that I am not adept at expressing my emotions. In all likelihood, I’ve failed to make it clear to you. You, Gregory, are one of those people._

_Without your intervention, I cannot say for certain that I would be here today. I find it difficult to admit that fact to you. I value your opinion of me greatly, and my mental weakness remains a sore spot for me. I find myself making decisions now with you in my mind, wondering what you’ll think. I fear I’ll disappoint you, or that you’ll tire of having to weather my eccentricities. I certainly wouldn’t begrudge you if you walked away after all you had seen._

_That night you asked me what I wanted; I told you many different things. What I didn’t get a chance to say, was this: I want to continue to water whatever this is between us. To see if we are able to get it to grow. Only, if that’s what you want as well, of course._

_If it is not, I only ask that you be honest with me, and we can hopefully continue as we are. Regardless, please know I am forever grateful for what you’ve done for me, and for Sherlock for that matter._

_M_

Pressing send, he closes his laptop with a click. _Well, you’ve made your bed. Now you must lie in it._ After brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed, he grabs his phone, promising himself he’d refresh his email only once to see if Greg had responded. As he’s unlocking it, a text arrives.

_[1:04AM] Christ, you ridiculous man. Not in a state to send you a wordy reply after all that whiskey but of course, I want that. You, I mean. ’M not going anywhere xx_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers - 
> 
> We've reached the penultimate chapter of our story! I'm both relieved and sad in equal measure, and so incredibly grateful for your support for my first fic! Thank you! 
> 
> It's been such a wonderful experience that I've already begun working on a second (completely unrelated) story, which I hope to begin posting in the next few days. 
> 
> Tune in tomorrow for the final chapter.
> 
> Thank you again!  
> xx


	9. There Is A Taste Of Time Sweetened Honey, Down The Seven Bridges Road

_One Week Later_

[2:04PM] Just wanted to let you know that his first week back in the office is not going well. You may want to check in with him later. A

[2:07PM] Oh god, what's happened? G

[2:09PM] I tried to fill his schedule this week with those I knew who would be both discrete and respectful. Familiar faces, if you will. Unfortunately the PM’s chief of staff slipped past my desk while I was otherwise occupied this afternoon, and an ugly conversation ensued. It seems the infernal man implied that the PM believes Mycroft is no longer fit to continue in his role, not that he’s in any place to be the judge of that, the pillock. A

 _Bastard._ Greg thinks. 

[2:11PM] Do me a favor? Leaving something at your front desk in half hr. Can you leave it on his desk this afternoon when you get a chance? G

[2:12PM] Of course. A

[3:03PM] It’s downstairs. G

[3:11PM] Got it. A

\- - 

When he gets back from his meeting with the French ambassador, a headache is building behind his eyes. A small drawstring bag is waiting on his desk. He notices it but gets distracted by a phone call before he has a chance to open it, and then is interrupted by Anthea who has come into the room to review his schedule for the remainder of the day. 

“What is it?” She asks, nodding at the little bag while depositing two paracetamol and a glass of water onto his desk, without him having asked. She had to force herself not to peek when she picked up Greg’s little gift from reception. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a moment to open it just yet,” He’s rubbing his fingers against his temples, trying to stave off the headache. Curiosity gets the better of him though, and he reaches out with the pen he's holding to snag the parcel by the loop in the drawstring and drag it toward him. He unties the knot and tips the contents into his hand. 

A small glass vial with a cork top is resting in his palm. Inside are several tiny pieces of different shaped colored glass. Blue, white, green. 

Her gasp is audible; confused as to why Greg would leave him such a cruel and callous gift. Things seemed to have been going so well between the two of them. 

“I don’t understand,” she says, already making a move to snatch the offending item from his hand. But when she looks up he appears to be...smiling? 

Mycroft tips the vial on its side and rolls it toward her across the expansive desk. She reaches out to grab it before it tumbles off the side. 

Picking it up, she studies the inscription. “Non è Niente,” she says out loud. "It's nothing," he translates for her, and receives a raised eyebrow in return. 

He closes his eyes, and draws in a deep breath, centering himself. Greg had sent him a reminder of his strength. A reminder that the annoying issues of his day are nothing compared to those that he’s already overcome. _It’s nothing_ , indeed. 

“Anthea,” he says, sounding more like himself than he has in weeks. “Can you please set up a meeting with the PM for tomorrow? If he’s questioning my ability to continue in my role, I’d like for the joke of a politician to have to say so to my face. ”

\- - 

[5:15PM] _Grazie._ That was unbelievably thoughtful of you Gregory. I’ll cherish it. M

[5:17PM] Are you by chance free for dinner? M

\- - 

Greg is spinning slowly on a kitchen stool watching Mycroft assemble a salad. The smell of something roasting floats all around them in the kitchen. 

“I was worried you’d miss the inscription,” Greg says, swirling the wine in his glass. “When I got your text, I was so relieved. Hope you gave that bastard a piece of your mind.” 

Looking up to meet his eyes, Mycroft smiles. “I will when I see him tomorrow. It was perfect,” marveling at Greg’s intuition. “Somehow you always seem to know just what I need. I believe you gave Anthea quite the fright though.” Greg laughs. “I’m sure. I’ll let you handle that one.”

He slices a tomato in companionable silence. Occasionally casting glances at Greg, who is still boasting his Sardinian tan. The man looks at home here, humming some infernal pop song while sipping wine in Mycroft’s kitchen. _How did you get here?_ His brain asks, not for the first time. 

He takes a deep breath. Greg, hearing the sound, looks up at him. “Gregory, may I ask you something?” His hands busy themselves chopping a cucumber. _He’s nervous_ , Greg observes, swiveling his stool to face Mycroft. 

“‘Course,” Greg says easily, taking a little sip of his wine. 

“I have an appointment with a surgeon about these next week,” he says, waving the cut vegetable vaguely in front of his face in the direction of his scars. “It is my understanding that the recovery from that sort of reconstructive surgery will be quite arduous, and nothing is guaranteed. Before I decide, I was wondering if I might ask your opinion on the matter.” 

That’s not what Greg was expecting. “Oh,” he says lightly, taking another sip of the wine before responding. “I hadn’t realized you were still considering that. I know they make you pretty uncomfortable, so if you’re unhappy with the way you look, you should do it. Personally though, I don’t even notice them when I look at you anymore.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “I’m hoping for your actual opinion Greg, not platitudes.” 

Greg holds both hands up in a gesture of surrender, making sure to look Mycroft in the eye. “I’m not trying to make you feel better, Myc. I told you a few weeks ago that I was interested in pursuing this, didn’t I? Pursuing you, I mean. I am very attracted to you, if I haven’t made that obvious. Was before. Am now.” 

Shaking his head, Mycroft sighs. “They repulse me. I don’t understand how you can look at them and not feel the same way.” There’s a little heat to his words. Frustration. 

“It may sound corny, but they’re kind of like the sea-glass to me, a reminder of how far you’ve come. How far we’ve come,” he says, willing Mycroft to believe him. “I don’t see Delaux when I look at you. I only see you, the person who makes me laugh, who inspires me, who looks after your infernal brother despite the fact that he’s impossible, who uses his superior intellect for good. Who in spite of everything he’s been through, has maintained his courage, his heart, his dignity and his grace. I see you, Myc. And I want you. The rest is just window dressing.”

When Mycroft gently places the knife on the cutting board, it barely makes a sound. He makes his way slowly around the kitchen island toward Greg, giving him every opportunity to retreat, but of course he doesn’t. In a spectacular reversal of their roles, Mycroft slots himself in between Greg’s legs on the stool. Mycroft standing. Greg sitting. Greg can feel the puff of Mycroft’s breath, faces inches away. He ventures forward, feeling Mycroft’s hands come up to card through his hair. When their lips finally touch, Mycroft feels that familiar stirring in his stomach, as another large piece of him slots itself back into place. 

Greg draws back for a second, looking Mycroft directly in the eye. His hands rest gently on the sides of Mycroft’s face, a thumb ghosting over the scar that runs from his earlobe across his cheekbone. For once, Mycroft stares right back, ice grey meeting endless pools of black. 

“Let’s get one thing straight right now.” Greg says fiercely, “Nothing about you repulses me, got that? _Niente.”_ Mycroft’s heart is hammering in his chest. 

“When you’re ready, and only then, I’ll prove it to you over and over again, until you believe it yourself.” _Oh god._

Mycroft dives for his lips again. Their arms are entwined around each other, dinner long forgotten…. - BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP ...until the oven timer goes. Greg groans. “Ughhhhhhh, leave it,” he says, going in for another kiss.

“I can’t,” Mycroft says, pulling away with a smirk; his eyes alight. “It will burn.” 

“Yes, yes, fine, fine. Take the damn thing out and then get back over here.” Greg says with a flash of something in his eyes. 

“Don’t worry, Gregory. Now that I know I know I can cash in on those, I will claim them regularly.” 

“Do,” Greg says, approaching Mycroft from behind and snaking his arms around his ribcage, landing a kiss on his neck as he reaches for the oven door. 

It’s _not nothing,_ Mycroft thinks to himself, overwhelmed. _It is everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! 
> 
> Happy Monday! Hope you enjoyed this short and sweet final farewell for these two lovebirds. Thank you again for your incredible support, and for allowing me to use this forum as the creative outlet I've craved desperately over these past few months. 
> 
> Keep your eyes out for a new yet-to-be-named story, which hopefully begin it's journey here in the next few days. 
> 
> Be safe & well, wherever you are!  
> x


End file.
